Attention
by si-star-x
Summary: Another monster bites the dust, but it doesn't leave Dean unscathed. He's a wounded soldier again, a deep  but minor  gash across the back of his knee and a sprain to go with it. Sam's on duty to stitch him up again. Written for Dizzo's Birthday.


The evil fiend-of-the-day is toast; another job well done, but it hasn't come without a price.

"If you want..." Dean's voice is strained, taught around the edges, "I could get this myself."

The offer is hesitant, and from his position half-sprawled across the motel bed with eyes being forced to remain open after being held tightly shut during the ride back from the hunt, he knows it's a doubtful suggestion.

Sam has already began fumbling through the first aid kit, fingers grazing over the familiar needle pouch with relative ease. He plucks his favourite needle from the worn leather and positions it over the back of his own knee, makes a face.

"Possibly." He replies after a long intermission, fingers sifting through the box again for the medical-grade thread they use all too often. "If you twist your leg into a really awkward position." He finds the thread, holds it up to the light. "But looking at the way you clutch that knee, I'd say it's not going to happen."

"Party pooper."

Sam chuckles as he sets the equipment down on the dressing table, then motions towards the blood-stiffened clothing still covering Dean's injuries. "Those jeans need to come off."

"If you're going to stitch me up, you might as well undress me." Dean grimaces as he lifts his hips and starts to work off the belt holding up his favourite Levi's. "I'm glad the bitch gouged out more of my flesh than denim."

"Only you would say that." Sam smiles and waits until Dean has the jeans over his ass before reaching forward to yank them down the rest of the way.

He's methodical with the left leg, but when he comes to the right he's careful, gentle, easing the material over the swollen and bruised joint with slow precision and tender movements. The blood hasn't dried enough to stick denim to skin and he's thankful that it pulls away with ease. He lifts the bad leg up onto the bed, barely giving it a thought as the blood trickles down onto the blankets. He grunts as he notices, and spreads his hoodie across the mattress before repositioning the injured limb.

"How does it look?" Dean asks quietly, lets his eyelids fall. He's exhausted from both blood loss and the fact they haven't slept enough over the past three days, and injuries always seem to draw it out more.

"I don't even know what you've done to this knee." Sam raises an eyebrow, thrusts the flask of alcohol towards his older brother.

"Fell on it." Dean answers dumbly, tipping his head back as far as possible to slug back a healthy dose of road-medicine. "Probably sprained. I dunno."

Sam chuckles and waits for another gulp to be taken before he takes the flask back and houses it along with the rest of the medical supplies. "I'm guessing eight stitches for the cut."

Dean shrugs, keeps his grip tight on the thigh of the sore leg. "Go for it."

It's not exactly Sam's favourite past time, but they both have a wealth of experience to make up for the lack of medical training. In the past he has used forceps to guide the curved metal into skin, but he quickly realised that doing it by hand is quicker and more precise. He fumbles with the most every-day of objects; coffee cups, car keys, but hand him a tiny metal needle and some barely-visible thread and he's good to go.

Sam has a feeling that Dean is going to have passed out before he's even finished, much less likely from pain than from sheer tiredness, but he knows that would only be a good thing. He plans to tape that knee up real tight to hold off the swelling and he knows Dean's not going to keep tight-lipped about it.

There's a bottle of tainted yellow rubbing alcohol in the hand-me-down med kit, and Sam gives it a thorough shake before dousing an equally yellowed gauze pad with the liquid. The blood has mostly stopped, but he uses his free hand to dab at the remaining part-congealed blood that surrounds the four-inch gash.

"Real hygienic." Dean grumbles as he catches sight of the ministrations; Sammy using his own hoodie to clear the red.

"It's getting expensive, all these motel blankets we should offer to replace." Sam grins, shakes his head. "Towels too. We're getting slow in our old age."

Dean nods in agreement, allows a smile to grace his lips. "Pro'ly right."

Sam doesn't give any warning before he presses the antiseptic-doused gauze against the gash, and he feels the leg jerk backwards even before Dean gasps in pain.

But Dean doesn't let out the tight string of curses that he usually would, and Sam's guessing it's because the alcohol has not only served as pain relief, but also as a catalyst to entice sleep.

"You good for me to carry on?"

Dean nods, but Sam can tell he's slipping. Stitches are always painful, but hey, even he has slept through them before.

"Okay." He replies softly, pushing through the pale skin that barely ever sees the light of day. Dean's not a shorts kind of man, and Sam takes solace in the fact that the new addition to his collection of scars isn't going to be one to phase him.

Dean winces a little at the contact, but by the third tug, Sam's pretty sure he's gone. He looks up from his position and notices the distinct change in the rise and fall of his brothers chest; a tiny difference that he somehow manages to notice. The lines at the corners of his eyes are smoothed out, and although his lips do quiver a little as the needle goes in again, Dean is unmistakeably asleep.

The needle is guided quickly through the last four stitches that hold together the tender flesh at the back of Dean's knee, which brings it to seven. Close enough. Sam isn't quite convinced by the fix-job, considering the swelling and bruising being emitted from whatever-the-hell-else his brother has done to the joint, but he knows it'll hold for the time being. He pulls through the last thread and tightens it securely before wiping the needle on the same gauze he used to clean the wound, then slots it back into position in the pouch ready for next time.

There is no sport tape left in the med kit, so Sam has to cut off a length of ace bandage to hold the clean gauze pad down against the stitches, and to provide some support to the injured knee. It's a routine manoeuvre, and barely a minute later he's sitting back inspecting his handiwork.

Dean's still asleep, his facial expression relaxed and calm, his shoulders loose, hand previously gripping his thigh now slumped against the mattress.

Sam debates purposely waking him so that he can comfortably snag back his now-bloodied hoodie and make an effort to elevate the leg, but he looks so damn relaxed and, dare he say it, happy, that it's not worth the hassle. He slowly lifts the leg, pulls back his hoodie with care and stability and then pushes the pillow from his own bed underneath the joint. He tilts the leg slightly so that the stitches have no force exerted against them and looks around for something to cover Dean with. He sighs for a moment but realises that yeah, he's pretty much damned to give up his blanket too, and so tosses it across Dean's body.

Sam disposes the used medical crap into the waste-paper basket, another nice surprise for the cleaners, and pulls himself up to flick out the light. A street-lamp outside continues to shine in through the broken shutters, and Sam smiles slightly as he realises that the light falls directly upon Dean, serves as illumination against his face. The younger Winchester realises that he hasn't seen Dean sleep for a long-ass time. Dean's usually asleep last, and when they do climb into bed at the same time they always face the adjacent walls. Sam has a habit of waking his brother up in the morning, so he concedes that sure, he does actually see Dean asleep on occasion, but he doesn't pay attention. He doesn't pay attention to the way the lines are etched out, how his lip quirks up intermittently and how his nose twitches seemingly unprovoked. Dean breathes deeply but he doesn't snore, and it takes Sam straight back to their childhood. That breathing had soothed him to sleep on a number of occasions, usually where Dean had been the one keeping him awake; worrying about telling him he's considering college, clutching at sleep after getting upset after an argument.

Sam knows that in the morning his brother is going to be sore and whiny, demanding coffee and fixing them back up with another hunt before the day is out. For now though, Dean is silent, relaxed, in dream-world where he is hopefully thinking about something good. Sam knows that becoming unconscious through pain and exhaustion and alcohol-consumption does not lend well to pleasant dreams, but he hopes.

"'night, Dean." He murmurs softly before seeking out a happy place of his own.


End file.
